


Listen Close Child

by Ranua



Series: A Touch of Free [3]
Category: Kane (Band), Supernatural
Genre: AU, Gen, Pre-Series, Wee!chesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 08:36:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7708246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranua/pseuds/Ranua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tired man with two kids meets up with a couple of hippie types.</p>
<p>(re-edited re-post from LJ)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Listen Close Child

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first story written in the Touch of Free verse, but it's the last chronologically. I thought I had posted it here and when I saw that I hadn't I did some editing and here it is.

Morning found them stocking up on canned goods at the little grocery store in the town they'd played the night before. They'd gotten paid in food and drink for the gig, but the bar owner had let them put out a jar for tips and they'd done okay. Enough to replenish some of the necessities anyway.

'Hey,' Steve calls to Chris from where he's picking through the damaged cans for a deal, 'grab some apples too.'

'But you like oranges,' Chris answers.

'We'll need apples tonight I think,' Steve replies.

Chris goes ahead and grabs a little paper sack of apples, and two oranges too, just because.

They'd been meaning to drive through the night but a little mom and pop campground catches Chris' attention. 'Hey, I know we were gonna keep going, but one more night ain't gonna hurt nothing, and I got a feeling.'

Steve laughs, always so bright and happy these days, not like when they'd first met, 'Sure babe, I think that's what the apples are for.'

It's just past noon, with only a few families and tents in the campground, when they pull in. They unpack a couple of camp chairs and start a fire, it may have been early afternoon, but they were still far enough north that it was cool in the shade this late in the year. Settling in with their instruments; Chris with his guitar and Steve with his fiddle, they use the unplanned stop to work on their set.

A couple of hours later, just as the lowering sun is painting the world with long shadows, a black Impala rumbles into the campsite next to them. Chris and Steve are relaxed, quietly jamming, trading licks and rills, playing for the joy of it and barely take notice of it's arrival. As a tired looking guy gets out of the car however, the tune Steve is playing changes.

Christian recognizes the melody as the one Steve sometimes uses at the rowdier bars they play. It was a calming melody that assured they would seem harmless and trustworthy. More than once, Chris is sure, it was the only reason they got out of a place without a fight breaking out over one thing or another.

'You think something's gonna go down?' he asks, tensing up, ready to act.

'Naw, he's that wound up, paranoid and tired and angry. It's as much for him as us,' Steve answers.

'Dean,' they hear the big man call out, 'Watch your brother.'

Two little boys tumble from the back of the Impala. Chris wasn't good with kids ages, but the littler one was just managing to walk and the other looked about the size of his sister's boy.

'C'mon Sammy,' they hear the bigger boy say as he grabs the toddlers hand, 'there's a swing set.'

The guy scrubs a hand through his hair with an audible sigh. 'Don't wander off!' he calls out as he turns to survey the campsite.

Steve nudges Chris with a foot. 'I think this is why we're here.' he says low voiced, as he draws the melody to a close.

'I think you're right,' Chris agrees just as quietly. 'I don't 'see' anything, but I got a feeling, ya know?'

'Yeah babe, I know.' Steve smiles at his partner, 'If nothing else we can give the poor guy a nights rest. I can almost see the grief hanging on him and the older boy.'

*&*&*&*&

The campground playground is just a swing set in a clearing of loose sandy soil. The old metal frame is rust flaked and creaky chains hold up weathered board seats. Dean is in heaven, pumping himself higher and higher. The breeze in his hair makes him feel like he's flying. Like he's free.

Sammy is too little to swing, so Dean had found him an old spoon under the back seat of the Impala to dig in the dirt with. The digging would keep him occupied enough for Dean to have a good long swing, or so Dean hoped.

Opening his eyes to check on Sammy, he sees his little brother approaching the campsite next to theirs. Hopping off the swing he rushes over, 'Sammy! Come on!' He tugs at his little brother, careful not to pull him over and make him cry, but they've got to move. These are strangers and Dad said never, never talk to strangers, bad things happen. And Dean knows bad things. Bad things are his mom in the fire and heat and burning and fear and Dad crying. So, strangers are bad.

But Sammy won't come away, he pulls against Dean's hold, eyes intent on the man with the fiddle by the fire. Dean doesn't know what's so great about the man. He's just playing a fiddle, and the music's not even the kind Dad turns up and sings along to. This stuff doesn't have any words to sing along with.

'You boys won't bother him,' a gruff voice out of the darkness says. Both boys give a squeak as they startle, Sammy finally letting Dean pull him close. 'When he gets to playing like this he's in his own world,' the man continues as Dean tries to push Sammy behind him, out of sight.

'You boys belong to the man with the Impala?' the stranger asks.

'Yes sir,' Dean answers, wary of the stranger, but minding his manners like he remembers his mama telling him. Sammy's hiding behind his legs, peering out curiously at the man.

'Well then, let's get you back over there.' He doesn't grab at them or try to take Dean's hand or pick up Sammy, which makes Dean breath a little easier. He just walks slowly beside them to where their father is getting a fire started in the glow of the Impala's headlamps.

*&*&*&*&

As Chris walks beside the two boys toward their father he notices that there are protective runes drawn in the margin where the grass meets the dirt of the rough camp circle. If there weren't some of the exact same runes etched into the walls of their van Chris is sure they'd look like nothing more than random lines in the dirt.

'Excuse me, sir,' Chris says as he approaches.

The man looks up from where he's building a fire, 'Dean! I told you not to wander off!' The boys' father has tired, angry, exasperation in his voice.

'Don't be too hard on 'em sir. Seems the little one was drawn in by my Steve's playing. He could charm an angel outta heaven.' Chris grins.

'They know better than to wander off though,' the man says with a hard look at the older boy. 'And they definitely know not to bother strangers.'

'No bother, sir,' Chris says. 'Just boys being boys I expect.'

'John Winchester,' the man extends a hand, 'and these two are Dean and Sammy,' he waves to where the older boy is pushing the younger onto the hood of the car.

'Chris Kane,' Chris returns the firm handshake. 'The fiddler ya hear is my Steve,' he nods in the direction of the blond still quietly playing by their campfire.

'Good to meet ya,' John returns.

With a shrewd eye Chris takes in the rough campsite. 'Not to be rude,' he says, knowing he is, but he's got a feeling, something right at the edge of the sight, 'I can't help but notice ya don't seem to really be prepared for camping.'

John grimaces, truth be told, he wasn't ready for roughing it. The money had run out before they got far enough south for produce picking and the local garage hadn't needed help. There hadn't been anything to do but push on and hope his luck changed.

'Yeah,' John rubs the back of his neck, 'not much work around here.'

'I hear ya buddy,' Chris commiserates. 'Me and Steve were lucky to get a couple bucks and dinner outta playing the bar last night.' Careful to sound respectful, he continues, 'I don't mean it as charity, but we've got extra blankets, we could combine campsites. More people'd be safer, specially for the kids.' Chris nods knowingly at the wards around the site.

It does feel a bit like charity, but more people, especially people who seem to know what's out there, is safer. The paranoid part of him is rebelling, but the tired father in him wants to rest with his kids safe. And for whatever reason he feels like he can trust this guy.

'You know, that doesn't sound half bad. We've got food, but I expected to be further south and the boys could use the extra blankets. Hell,' he laughs ruefully, 'adult conversation would be reason enough.'

'Alright then,' Chris slaps his palms against his thighs, 'Steve and I haven't set up anything but the camp chairs and the fire, why don't we move our stuff over here?'

&*&*&*&*

Steve puts out their fire and moves their camp chairs beside the other fire pit. He leaves the van where it's at since it's already beside the Winchester's site. As he moves the stuff around the boys watch his every move; Sammy with wide eyed wonder, peering around Dean from their perch on the hood of the car, Dean with vague suspicion that's out of place on such a young face. 

John gets the fire going as he watches Chris wander the edges of their space. The other man is trailing a stick in seemingly random patterns as he walks. Fire lit, he goes over to see what the long hair man is doing and recognizes native American protective runes and something that looks like voodoo etched into the ground. As he gets closer to Chris, he can hear the man humming and softly chanting to himself as he draws.

Chris shrugs at John's look. 'I'm part Cherokee and part Creole. Me-maw and Grand-mere both made sure I'd know enough to stay safe when I left home. Besides, those old women love Steve to distraction, and if I let harm come to him, I'd not be welcome back home I think.'

John nods at the explanation, some of the runes are nothing he's ever seen before and he plans to ask all about them. Turning back to the campsite he sees his boys watching the blond. 'Looks like Sammy's a fan too.' The littlest boy seems to have gotten over any shyness and is right at the man's heels.

Chris laughs, 'Yep, he's got a way with kids that baffles him.'

&*&*&*&*

Hot dogs on sticks held over the fire are dinner. A meal they've had countless times is made better by company. Steve's easy smiles and Chris' stories of the people they've met on the road draw out the same from John. 

Sammy is intent on Steve's fiddle, stubby fingers making grabbing motions whenever he gets within reach, while Dean watches Steve with wary eyes. Even with John there, Dean is the one who takes care of Sammy, making sure he eats, cleaning him up, trying to keep him out of Steve's way.

When Chris pulls out the apples, saying 'got 'em real cheap, but we need to eat 'em while they're still sound and Steve and I are getting sick of 'em.' Dean lights up, he loves apples.

John laughs and cuts up apples for both boys. Sammy unself-consciously climbs into Johns lap to eat his apple. Dean sits edged up close to his dad's side. He wants to be in his dad's lap like Sammy, but he knows he's supposed to be a big boy now and not need that kind of thing.

Chris starts in on some story about a preacher in Texas and Sammy falls asleep, apple slice clutched in one grubby hand. Dean edges closer and closer, until John scoops him up and cuddles him together with his brother. Dean falls asleep to the quiet rumble of his father's voice as the three men talk. He's warm and happy and the feel of family surrounds him.

*&*&*&*&

Dean wakes curled around Sammy in a nest of blankets beside the fire. Sammy is asleep, safe in the curve of Deans body. The long-haired man and his dad are talking quietly on the other side of the fire, smoking and sharing a bottle. The blond man, Steve, his sleepy mind remembers, is playing quietly, not a song, just fragments and snatches of tunes. 

His little brother had been drawn to the man all night and it bothered Dean. He was Sammy's brother and he got a hurt, angry feeling when Sammy's attention was focused on someone else. So, he was keeping a close eye on this music playing guy.

Looking at the boys sleeping between him and the fire Steve catches the reflected light in Deans open eyes. The older boy has been wary of him all night, keeping a closer eye on any interaction between Steve and his brother than their dad did.

'You're a smart little guy aren't you?' he says softly. 'Always looking out for your brother. He's lucky to have a big brother like you.' He doesn't expect any response from the boy. In fact, he's not sure he's heard the boy speak more than a handful of words, and aside from 'yes sir' and 'no sir', they were all directed at his brother. 

Steve knows how grief can steal your words. How it can seal your thoughts right up and leave you unable to say a thing. He was the same way after the accident that took his mama and poppy.

'He can hear the magic in the music I think.' He can see Dean's a little confused and a little alarmed. 'It's okay, it's good magic, the kind that protects you, keeps you safe,' he knows he's oversimplifying it, but he's trying to reassure the kid.

'Special like the stuff dad draws around doors and windows to keep us safe?' Dean asks quietly, arms curled protectively around his brother.

Steve is surprised, but pleased, that the little guy is talking to him.'Yeah,' he says, 'but not just special music has magic, all music has magic. The magic is in the way it makes you feel.' He's not sure how much the boy understands, but it feels important that he tell him.

'Like when daddy sings to the radio?' Dean asks curiously. 'That means he's happy and we're safe and that makes me feel good.'

Steve's impressed Dean makes the connection. 'That's it exactly,' he smiles at the boy. 'You remember those feelings, and then, when you hear the same music, you feel that way again and you can make it real if you concentrate hard enough.'

'Then music can protect Sammy,' Dean states in a determined little boy voice.

'Yeah,' Dean's single minded focus on his brother is kinda scary Steve thinks, 'it'll help you look out for your brother.'

'That's my job,' he says with pride, 'I look out for Sammy.'

'You do a great job too,' Steve praises. 'You'd better get back to sleep though, so you can do your job.'

'Alright,' Dean agrees as he snuggles back down with his brother, having decided that this music playing man isn't so bad after all.

Steve begins to play softly again. This time with his focus on protecting the fierce little boy who's job it is to look out for his baby brother.

&*&*&*&*

Dean has had a long, damp, frustrating, day slogging through knee high wet grass in an old cemetery trying to find the right paupers grave to salt and burn. He wishes he could have doused the whole graveyard and been done with it.

All he wants is a cold beer in a quiet corner. Thankfully the hole in the wall dive at the end of the main drag looks like the perfect spot to find both.

There is a guitar and fiddle combo playing on the corner stage, seemingly more to themselves than the small crowd scattered at the tables. Country music isn't really his thing, but these two sound pretty good.

As the fiddle twists through the guitar he's hit by a sense memory so strong it staggers him. The feel of flying on a swing, the smell of a campfire, the taste of apples and the feelings of safety and family flood his mind. Through it all weaves the sound of a fiddle and he smiles to remember the magic in music.


End file.
